


What’s Heavy Behind

by peachesanddenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amputee Dean Winchester, Amputee!Dean, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Worship, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Castiel owns a bookshop, Dean Winchester is a veteran, Depressed Castiel (Supernatural), F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is biologically Castiel’s son, M/M, No Beta, Recovering Addict Sam Winchester, Recovery, Serious Injuries, Veteran!Dean, bookshops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachesanddenim/pseuds/peachesanddenim
Summary: In a small town of Oregon, hidden away in the shadows of mountains and fed by a circlet of Pacific Ocean, a family is made.A hollowed bookkeeper and his child, a disabled veteran, and a recovering addict, find solace and understanding in one another.This is a story of how love heals.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 33
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh- so, I’ve been debating on posting this because it isn’t finished and I’m notoriously bad at not finishing things, however!! I just finished another fic so I am, indeed, capable of it!
> 
> This project here has my heart in a vice, so I have high hopes. If you guys like it, I’ll be even more emboldened to finish strong! 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> \- Richie

The bell sounded through the bookshop, which yawned hollowly like it was a hello. Following the disruption of quiet, was the familiar gust of inkling, damp air. Castiel breathed it in, squinted through the rising steam of his coffee. Both sensations tried, and failed, to wake him from the stupor of early morning. 

However, the approaching customer did what they could not. 

Kicking Castiel out of the clinging dregs of sleep was the unblemished heft of the man who approached him. Castiel was no stranger to tall, encroaching men that seemed to take up the air around them not only with height and width, but with the sheer, whipping magnitude of themselves. This man was different in that, where he was tall and broad shouldered, berthed wide and strong, he carried himself close to his chest. Cinched, squished, contained. 

“Uh, hey.” the man said in a quiet voice, as if this were a library and not a bookshop. Castiel continued to squint, took in the vulpine features of him, the roguish shag of his brown hair, the flighty tracks his nervous hands made. “I’m here for the interview?” 

Castiel stood up a little straighter, the duties he’d forgotten in the haze of the barely awake, settled on his shoulders again. He did that perhaps too often, too reliant on the grit of caffeine and not much else to keep him functioning, like gasoline in an old, dying car. Without it, he was nearly brainless, puttered along the interstate, listless, rumbling. 

“Of course, yes, Sam Winchester?” he assumed, and the man, Sam, nodded shortly, hand as large as a saucer rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. The display made Castiel feel old, bereft. He could stand to offer this man a bit of warmth. “Would you like a cup of coffee, before we start?” 

Sam Winchester trickled a breathy chuckle, and nodded again. Castiel gestured toward a pair of unmatched armchairs in the corner by the display window, to which Sam went almost gratefully, before disappearing into the backroom to make the coffee. 

Jack, now awake, albeit hardly, blinked at him from his pile of blankets on the couch. Castiel blinked back. Jack smiled. 

“Good morning, Jack.” Castiel hummed as he fought with the old drip-pot, and Jack replied in a series of muffled, sleepy noises. Jack inherited Castiel’s morning fogginess. He hoped it would fair better for the boy than it did for him. 

Coffee in hand, alongside a crumpled carton of half-and-half and a hastily found handful of splenda packets tucked into the crook of his elbow, Castiel returned to the front of the shop. He set them down at the table between the two arm chairs, and Sam smiled softly up at him, his knees jotted close together, his arms crossed low over his lap. 

“I don’t know how you take your coffee; I brought what I had.” Castiel admitted, sinking both in the empty chair and into the muted air Sam permeated around them. Sam, despite what Castiel feared in the face of his sheer size, was easy to be around. Castiel was, unlike to great, hawking men, a stranger to this. 

“No, this is perfect, thanks.” Sam offered quickly, and took the cup Castiel offered, which sat almost like a toy in his hands. “This place is really nice. I like the name.” 

“Are you a fan of Yeats?” Castiel prompted, endeared, and Sam smiled bashfully as he poured a generous splash of creamer into his cup. 

“Yeah, uh. Not a huge fan of poetry, admittedly, but Yeats is different.” Sam explained, and Castiel nodded in understanding. 

“Yeats is easy to relate to, I’ve found, despite his medium.” he provided, and Sam hummed thoughtfully. Castiel, finishing the final, heady dregs of his own coffee, went on. “Tell me about yourself, Sam.” 

Sam fluttered for a moment, looked away and took a sip of his drink, before he visibly garnered his courage and turned back. He established a strong eye contact with Castiel, a good sign. 

“I- uh. I’m from Kansas. I graduated from Stanford University with a B.A.S, Majored in The Rule of Law.” He began, sheepishly. “I didn’t finish Law School, due to extenuating circumstances, but I don’t think I would pursue that path now, anyway. I just moved to town, little over a month ago. I need a job, and I enjoy working, and I feel at home in a book, and this place seemed- it just seemed nice. I'd really like to work here.” 

Castiel sat with that monologue for a moment. Sam seemed very genuine, if shuttered, and had the magnitude of his shining success in academia not been enough evidence of his capability, his earnest honesty would've garnered him the position anyway. Castiel set his cup down, clasped his hands between his knees, and asked his final question. 

"What’s your favorite book, Sam?" 

Sam, to his credit, softly laughed and turned to look out the window as he thought of an answer. Rain, always rain, pattered and streaked across the glass as permanent and heavy as a tattoo on flesh. The outside was grey. The juxtaposition of the wet, dulled light that peeked through the window, and the warm, orange glow of the shop lamps, made Sam Winchester look like a painting. An old one, yellowed and warmed with age, the primary colors faded away to softer, pastel browns and maroons and mosses. Castiel was easily, completely, enamored with him. 

"Beautiful Boy, by David Sheff." Sam admitted at last, looking back at Castiel with a closed gaze. "At least, at the moment." 

Castiel wondered then, if Sam was David Sheff, or the Beautiful Boy. He decided it didn’t matter. 

"Thank you for coming, Sam. You'll start Monday." Castiel told him, and offered him a small, awkward smile. Sam beamed and set his own cup down to offer him, in turn, a grateful hand. Castiel took it and shook once, firmly. 

"Thank you so much, wow, um- sorry, I don't know your name?" He fumbled, and Castiel pulled his hand away, chiding himself for being rude. 

"Castiel Shurley." he supplied, and Sam jumped from his seat, suddenly boundless with energy. 

"Mr. Shurley, thank you, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. You won't regret this, I promise." Sam sweared, and Castiel smiled up at him, easier that time, feeling gentle, feeling old still, but in a welcomed way. 

"Of course, Sam. Welcome to The Cloth of Dreams." 

\--

Working with Sam proved easy, proved kind. Sam, Castiel learned, was perhaps the very definition of, 'gentle giant'. What before had filled the mold of the phrase for Castiel, such as Lenny from Of Mice and Men or Treebeard from The Lord of The Rings, was easily replaced by his young, new shopkeeper. 

Sam was gentle in word, gentle in movement, gentle in work. He was especially gentle with Jack, who took to him just as well as Castiel, if more openly and unabashedly, and Castiel found himself content with his decision to hire Sam. 

Castiel had gone into the process of hiring another hand trepidatiously. Not that he couldn't afford it, or that he necessarily needed it, but out of a selfish loneliness. A trepidatious notion because Castiel feared people. Feared the great, heaving, festering wound of humanity. Too often had Castiel been bled on, or had his own wound dug into and spread, to allow easily into his and Jack’s life another presence, a friend, someone else to live for alongside his son. He supposed, though with cowardice, that an employee for his self-run bookshop was a comprehensible first step. 

That was not to say that Sam was not a perfect example of the wound that was being a person. Sam was, perhaps, more wounded than most. Castiel didn’t know why, nor did Sam exhibit some kind of blatant evidence of it, but it was there, and Castiel saw it as easily as he knew his own. Sam Winchester, however, was good, exuded goodness, and surely there existed no better person for Castiel to allow to slowly begin breaking down his walls. 

"Morning, Castiel." 

Castiel stuttered from his introspective musing and smiled at Sam, who was stuffing his umbrella into the holder at the door. For the first time since Sam started, over a month ago now, Sam was not alone. 

Stalking behind him, eying his surroundings with distrust, was another man. He was shorter than Sam, but only by a few inches, and so it was yet again that Castiel was met with a large man. This man, unlike Sam, had a presence that seemed to choke the room. Not out of boisterous air, but like a trapped desert storm that leaked chaos and sand through a cage that was never built to withstand it. It made the room feel stifling, filled Castiel's lungs with something hot and arid. 

"Hello, Sam. Who is this?" He asked kindly, straightening up from his stoop over his book and coffee. Sam smiled brightly at him and wandered over, tugging the man after him with an almost childish grip on the tail of his jacket. 

"This is my big brother, Dean." He introduced, and displayed the other man, Dean, not unlike Jack displayed a new artwork. Proudly, eagerly, with a need for approval. 

"Hey." Dean Winchester said stiffly, and offered him his left hand. Rare for someone to do, and Castiel fumbled a bit to slip his own into Dean's waiting palm. Another moment's observation, and Castiel realized that Dean Winchester did not have a right forearm. His coat sleeve was tightly pinned to the end of his elbow, and Castiel danced his eyes from it quickly. 

"It's nice to meet you, Dean." Castiel said, shaking the man's hand before retreating. "What brings you to The Cloth of Dreams?" 

Sam at this point had wandered into the back, no doubt to brew his cup of coffee and wake Jack, and Castiel felt himself floundering. Castiel was not good with people, and Dean seemed more blatantly human than most. 

"Wanted to see where Sammy spends all his time." Dean replied shortly, and Castiel nodded. 

"Please, make yourself at home. I hope you like it as much as Sam does." Castiel said softly, allowing them the out they both wanted. Dean nodded in lieu of reply, and began walking the small space, disappeared and reappeared behind the shelves and stacks. 

Castiel watched. 

Dean Winchester was blond, where Sam was brunet. Dean Winchester was sharp, where Sam was squared. Dean Winchester was beautiful, where Sam was handsome. 

Dean was uniquely faced, with petaled lips and a feminine, thin jaw, round eyes with thick, curling lashes and blushed, sunny skin peppered with a litany of small, curious scars. His nose was angled jarringly, once harshly broken and badly healed. He walked heavily, bowlegged, footsteps audible and jaunted. He moved through the space like a javelin, quick, cutting, with a kind of violence. Or perhaps not violent, but unforgiving. 

Dean Winchester was hard, where Sam was soft. 

Castiel was immensely, incredibly, allured. 

"You and Jack are identical in the mornings." Sam chuckled, reintroducing himself to the room, two coffee cups in hand. "He does that grumpy head-tilt, squinty thing you do, it's hilarious." 

Sam set the cups on the vaulted counter, and waved Dean over, who was already approaching. Dean eyed Castiel for the first time since his arrival not with distrust, but curiosity. 

"You gotta kid, right?" He asked, taking a cup of coffee when Sam offered it. Castiel, due only to the subject manner, was able to bring himself to speak unhindered with social ineptitude. 

"Jack. He's three." Castiel hummed, his brain waning to a delightful idleness, bathed in a sudden warmth of a love he'd never expected he'd know, never hoped he'd have. Of which he was so grateful for he burned with it. "He's the best thing that's ever happened to me." 

Dean's harsh lines seemed to mellow. He took a sip of his coffee, his fingers lipped tight over the rim. Strange, that he didn’t use the handle. "I know a little something about that." His eyes fell on Sam, and even stranger to see, was the sudden melt of him, the unadulterated, fierce, all of him displayed in the way he looked at Sam. 

Not for the first time, Castiel found himself very curious about a Winchester. 

"You have a child?" Castiel wondered aloud, although he was already sure of the answer. Dean's eyes flickered back to Castiel as quickly as the walls in them bricked up again. 

"Nah." He said shortly, and Sam smiled softly and supplied proudly, comparatively, "Dean raised me." 

Castiel sighed, hit with a realization that perhaps the Winchesters were not so alien a pair as he’d thought. There was something about them that Castiel was beginning to understand was relatability. A kind of kinship. 

"My elder brother raised me, as well." Castiel admitted, hoping that this shared secret would do well to make Dean feel more comfortable, more seen, and inspire an understanding between the three of them. 

As much as it killed him to think about Gabriel.

Sam’s eyebrows raised what seemed to be several inches, and he and Dean shared a heavy look. Sam turned back to Castiel with a welcoming smile and said, “Maybe we can all get together for a drink sometime? Me and Dean have been looking for friends around here.”

Dean looked away with a scowl, alluding to his contrasting thoughts on the matter. Castiel tore his eyes away from the older Winchester, and stared heavily at the counter top for a moment, chest aching. Dean and Gabriel were not at all similar, and yet the situation was strikingly familiar. 

“My apologies, Sam, but you’ll have to make do with just me. Gabriel is no longer with us.” He said after he’d managed to meet Sam’s eyes again, and he watched Sam full-body wince, watched as it rippled through his body as though the thought actually injured him. Cut at him. 

Dean remained stoic, but met Castiel’s gaze head-on, steady. For some reason, Castiel felt approved of. As if to experience true agony was to be accepted by Dean Winchester. 

“Castiel, I’m sorry.” Sam said simply, nothing else, no excuses, no platitudes. Castiel was grateful for it. There was a genuine simplicity to Sam, an unspoken understanding. Dean said nothing, just continued to frown and look at him. Rather than finding it disconcerting as he would normally, Castiel looked back. 

That was, until he felt a soft tugging on his pants. 

Coasting on the sound of Sam clearing his throat, Castiel broke eye contact with Dean to look down at his son. 

Jack was blinking at him, drawn and heavy shutters of his sleepy eyelids, and already his arms were stretched up for him. Castiel bent over and picked him up with a grunt, happy to settle his warmth on his hip and fortify himself with the impenetrable gold that was Jack. This, at least, was easy. Right and unhindered and simple. The edge to Castiel’s nerves dissipated, and the lingering dregs of grief melted away. 

Sam took Jack’s arrival as his cue to get to work and disappeared into the stacks with a hard pat to his brother’s shoulder. Dean hovered awkwardly, stuck between taking Sam’s silent dismissal as permission to leave and Jack’s sudden, fierce stare.

Castiel chuckled softly to himself. He looked between the abject fascination on Jack’s face and Dean’s hardened confusion. 

“He hasn’t pulled a gun on you, Dean.” Castiel remarked, and Dean flickered a glare at him before he was wrapped back into his and Jack’s eye contact. 

“He’s not even staring at my arm.” Dean said quietly, brows bunched up together, the tight skin around his mouth relaxed. 

“Jack is different.” Castiel told him, and used his free hand to push the boy’s hair out of his eyes. 

“Hello.” Jack finally said, breaking the spell that was his hyperfocus, and beamed. The corner of Dean’s lips twitched. 

“Sup.” He responded, a little stiltedly, before he puffed up his chest and squared his shoulders with a stiff nod. “Well, I’m gonna- go. Nice to meet y’all.”

“And we, you. Goodbye, Dean.”

With that, Dean shouldered his way out of the shop, bell twinkling behind him, and Castiel and son watched him go, eyes identically bright. 


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel did not see Dean Winchester again until Sam invited him and Jack over for dinner a couple of weeks later. 

He and Sam had been building the foundations of a strong friendship, Castiel delighting in each tidbit of their lives shared between them, the plethora of similarities brought to light as younger brothers raised by older brothers, of dead mothers, of alcoholic fathers. 

It amused Castiel that on his first try, he’d found a friend so easy to know. 

He had, however, wondered about Dean. There was still much about him that he didn’t know; Sam talked about him so often, and yet Castiel wanted more. So, when Sam invited them for dinner with the incentive of Dean’s presence as chef, Castiel found himself agreeing without hesitation. 

After he closed shop, an hour early so as not to delay the Winchesters’ supper, he strapped a babbling Jack into his car seat and followed the directions Sam had texted him. 

It wasn’t until he was halfway there that Castiel’s anxiety began to simmer. 

It was comforting that Sam would be there, not only because he was the closest thing Castiel had come to a best friend since he was a child, but because he’d function well as a buffer. Castiel was aware of himself enough to know that he was a rather stilted and awkward individual, and while Dean hadn't seemed a stellar conversationalist either, it was still daunting. 

Castiel also found Dean Winchester very beautiful. This thought made him blush. 

“We see Sam?” Jack asked from the backseat, catching Castiel’s eye in the rear view mirror, excited by the prospect. 

“Yes, he’s invited us for dinner with him and his brother. Remember your manners?” Castiel affirmed, and Jack nodded seriously. 

“Yes. Please and thank you.” He confirmed, before he smiled as hard as he possibly could, not just to emulate politeness but because he seemed to enjoy the sensation. 

_ I’d murder the world for you,  _ Castiel thought offhandedly. 

The route took him to the other side of town, further from the beach and closer to the dense wall of trees at the base of the closest mountain. The street was small, but the neighborhood was charming, compiled of mismatched cabins of wood or brick or both. Castiel parked on the curb of the cabin with the gleaming, black Classic. Without having to be told, Castiel knew the car belonged to Dean. 

The Winchester cabin was not the smallest on the block, but far from the largest. It was all dark, cherry-stained wood and a green painted door, two, square windows cloaked with plaid curtains still leaked shards of yellow light onto the overgrown lawn. 

They hadn't lived in town for very long, but it seemed the Winchesters had made a home here. 

Jack insisted on walking, as well as being the one to knock on the door. Castiel trailed behind him, hands fisted in the pockets of his trenchcoat, readying himself for an evening with the first friends he’d made since Gabriel died. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Sam who opened the door, but Dean, who seemed confused at Castiel’s distance from the door. 

“Hello! Please and thank you!” Jack announced, and Dean looked down, down, down at Jack, who Castiel noted with no small amount of amusement, always looked rather small in the presence of a Winchester. It was very cute. 

“Uh- hey, kid.” Dean managed and looked back up at Castiel, who had come closer to lay a leading hand on Jack’s head. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel greeted, and Dean silently looked at him for a long moment. For whatever reason, this seemed to be something Dean did with some frequency. Castiel stared back. 

“Hey, Cas. Come in.” 

He and Jack entered the home, Jack jumping up and down on the welcome mat to dust the rainwater off his boots as Castiel looked about. The front door opened right into the living room, which was quite small, with one, threadbare couch, a coffee table, and an old rug. The place was cozy, blankets scattered about, a tv was playing soft, rock music to an alternating background of landscapes. Jack was immediately enamored by the display and walked over to stare at it. 

“Not too close to the screen, Jack.” Castiel called after him, before turning to Dean and offering as earnestly as he can, “Thank you for having us, Dean.” 

Dean nodded and ran his hand over the back of his neck, something his brother did, as well. Castiel wondered from which the gesture originated. 

“Yeah, well, Sammy won’t shut up about you two. Might as well give you the chance to speak for yourself.” Dean replied. “He just ran to get some apple juice for the kid. Realized all we have is water and beer.” 

“Apple juice?” Jack asked, walking swiftly from his place at the edge of the couch to stand at Dean’s feet and grin up at him. “I love it!” 

Castiel chuckled, and went to gently pull Jack out of Dean’s bubble, but before he could, Dean slowly, with a small waver, reached down and ruffled Jack’s hair. 

“Don’t blame you. It’s good stuff.” Dean told him, and Jack dissolved into delighted giggles. Clearly, Castiel was not the only Shurley affected by Dean Winchester’s charm. 

Dean smiled, and it was small and worn, but he was smiling at  _ Jack _ , and Castiel had never stood a chance. 

“Sam come back?” Jack asked fervently, following after Dean when he began to walk off. That meant Castiel followed after Dean as well, and as he did, he thought about baby ducks and the imprinting phenomenon. Jack often reminded him of a duckling. His hair was pale and licked up at the base of his skull. 

“He’d better.” Dean sighed and resigned himself to company in the kitchen with a heavy furrow of his brow. They had to go through a door, which swung gently in their wake and opened into a space larger than the living room. It would have fit better in a farmhouse, this kitchen, with the back door framed by muddied boots and hung jackets, the light wood cabinets, the ever present plaid. There was even a chicken plush on the windowsill above the sink, it’s cloth feathers buffeting in the storm wind that eked in through the open crack. 

“You have a lovely home, Dean.” Castiel remarked, grabbing Jack gently from his orbit at Dean’s legs as the other man approached the oven. There was something simmering in a pot and it smelled divine. There was also a cutting board dressed with diced onions and bell peppers. Castiel’s mouth watered. 

“Thanks.” Dean grunted and removed the pot lid so he could scoop the onions in. Castiel thought it might be chili. 

Castiel pursed his lips, unaware of how to continue the conversation. So, he didn't, simply stood by the breakfast table tucked into the corner and let Jack jump over his feet and attempt to climb him. 

The silence was approaching stifling when Dean spoke up again, “You want a beer?” He turned to him, eyebrows raised expectantly, and that’s when Castiel realized Dean’s arm was on display. Not entirely, his shirt sleeve was just long enough to cover the residual limb, but it wasn’t pinned. It didn’t garner Castiel’s attention nearly as much as the exposed swell of his left bicep. He swallowed thickly. 

“That would be nice, thank you.” He replied, hands busy with Jack as he made his way up Castiel’s body by the sheer force of his will. Dean smirked at the sight before he procured a brown bottle from his fridge. 

“Got yourself a barnacle.” Dean saod gruffly, handing Castiel the beer, and the contrast of the cold bottle and the warmth of his fingers brushing Castiel’s made him flush. 

“Yes, well, barnacles  _ are _ symbiotic creatures. I can hardly complain.” Castiel hummed, attempting an easy smile, and Dean tried his best to return it. What did they look like, Castiel wondered, the two of them stunted and shuttered as they are, just trying to let walls down, smiling like it made them sore in an Oregonian kitchen.

Just then, the back door flew open, and Sam was bustling in, shaking rain out of his hair. Jack squealed happily, and detached himself from Castiel without a backwards glance. 

“Sam!” Jack cried, and Sam’s body bounced with delight. He deposited his grocery bag on the counter and plucked Jack from the floor. He tossed him in the air once with a booming laugh before he tucked him into his chest as though he were a favored accessory. 

“Castiel, I’m glad you made it.” Sam greeted, slipping his shoes off so he could grace Castiel with a warm, one armed hug. He returned it, chest seemingly alive with no small amount of joy. 

“I’m glad you invited me. Both of you.” Castiel ensured, glancing at Dean, who was staring, shocked, at Jack on Sam’s hip. His expression was otherwise unreadable, and when he caught Castiel looking, he squares away what small amount of emotion he had revealed. 

“Yeah, man. It’s the least I can do. You and Jack-,” at that Sam fumbled for a moment, bashful, head bowed. “Uh, you two are the first real friends I’ve had in years. And one of you is three.” 

Castiel chuckled and squeezed Sam’s shoulder, drawing his head back up with the solidity of the gesture. “I understand, Sam.” 

Sam smiled because yes, Sam knew Castiel did understand and understood well. 

“Well, hey, why don’t you take your coat off and stay awhile. I’ll get Jack his juice. I picked up a sippy cup, cause Dean’ll have a stroke if he gets it on the hardwood.” Sam babbled, hiking Jack further up his hip, the both of them content with their shared space. 

“I like apple juice!” Jack assured, twirling his fingers in Sam’s hair as he’s wont to do, and Sam laughed. 

“I know, Jack. That’s why I got it for you special. But, how do you feel about Disney princesses? That’s the only cup they had and-,” Castiel stopped listening as they walked away because Dean had pulled a chair out at the table. Castiel removed his coat off and set it on the back of his own chair and took a seat. He awkwardly took a sip of his beer. It was good. 

“He makes Sam happy.” Dean huffed, unprompted, and he looked at Castiel with steel in his gaze. “You both do.” 

Castiel frowned. What Dean was saying sounded good, so why did it seem like a threat? 

“As do you.” Castiel supplied, and Dean rolled his eyes and took a swallow of his own beer. 

“That’s besides the point. What I’m trying to say is, don’t you hurt him.” Dean said, and it wasn’t menacing and it wasn’t growling, but it was real, and it was stern. His eyes flickered with a green flame, and Castiel found himself not burning from it, but for it. 

“I won’t, Dean. I promise.” He declared, and he and Dean continued to stare, Castiel looking for all the answers to all of his countless questions in the lines around Dean’s eyes, and the magenta bow of his lips, and he thought he might have found some in the spattering of freckles along the crooked line of his nose. 

“Good.” Dean decided, before clearing his throat and looking away again. 

Castiel sighed and yearned. 

The dinner went quite well, and the chili was phenomenal. Castiel sung it praises throughout the remainder of the night, and partly because it deserved it, and mostly because it made Dean blush. 

Dean blushed beautifully. 

Sam had a hard time putting Jack down, but that was par for the course, and while Castiel was around both of the Winchesters he tried to piece out why exactly Sam levitated around Jack so earnestly. He was sure it was the same reason he saw Dean smiling at the pair of them, softly and earnestly, when he thought none of them were looking. Like a weight had been lifted from Dean’s shoulders. 

The closer Castiel got to Sam, the more he learned, it simply opened doors to more avenues that were sprawling and unending. Dean’s doors remained tightly closed. 

Castiel felt mad with his urge to know them. He didn’t know why, when he hadn’t exactly offered much about himself, either. That was a box of horrors the Winchesters were better off not opening. 

So, when he left that night, later than anticipated and with Jack asleep in his arms, all he’d really learned about Dean was what he looked like when he smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

“How is Dean?” Castiel asked, thumbing a price tag on a Daniel Steele book and handing it to Sam. The younger man shook his hair out of his eyes and took the volume to ease it into place on the shelf. 

“He’s good. Adjusting. I think the weather here makes him sore.” Sam offered, mouth opening as it did when he was particularly pensive. “He asked about you last night.” 

A hot, swooping sensation curdled Castiel’s stomach and he nearly cut himself with the edge of another sticker. He took a moment to press it firmly to the next book and handed it off to Sam. 

“He did?” Castiel prompted further, attempting to sound casual and most likely failing. Sam chuckled and gave him a thoughtful look. 

“Yeah, he really took a shine to Jack. Hard not to like that kid.” Sam remarked, grinning fondly as the both of them quieted to listen for the boy. He cooed somewhere, likely singing. Castiel and Sam shared a laugh. “But no, he asked an interesting question, actually.” 

Castiel tilted his head to the side and handed Sam yet another book. “What is that?” 

Sam was quiet for a minute or so, before he asked, “Don’t feel pressured to answer this, obviously, but did you serve, Cas?” 

Castiel jerked his gaze to Sam, who was staring at him, a soft, inquisitive expression drawing his eyebrows up. Sam had a rather expressive forehead, now that Castiel thought about it. 

“No, I did not. Why do you, well, why does Dean ask?” 

Sam shrugged and set another book on the shelf. The sound of the rain hitting the roof was a comforting, dull roar, and in Castiel’s empty shop with his best friend, he suddenly saw no reason to hide. 

“He said you had, ‘The Look’, which I guess I have to agree with. You and Dean, and me too, really- we have this; I don’t know, I wouldn’t say  _ haunted _ is the right word, not necessarily, but.” Sam caught Castiel’s eyes. “We’ve seen things.” 

Castiel swallowed and slid his eyes away. 

“I watched our oldest brother murder Gabriel five years ago. Before that, we lived under his regime. It was hell.” Castiel admitted into the quiet, and Sam sighed softly beside him. 

“Damnit, Castiel. You didn’t deserve that.” Sam replied angrily, glaring at the books, and Castiel settled his hand into the crook of Sam’s elbow. It warmed Castiel to know that Sam seemed to care about him so much. 

“None of us deserve sorrow.” Castiel said, and offered Sam a pained smile. Sam returned it waveringly, before looking down and swallowing thickly. He thought silently for a long moment. 

“That’s another thing we have in common. I watched my fiancé burn to death.” Sam shared softly, nearly inaudible. Castiel ached for him, tears sprung to his eyes. “I was in a bad way for a long time. It wasn’t until Dean was discharged that I got clean. Just got my one year token.” 

“Beautiful Boy.” Castiel murmured, and when Sam looked up, shocked, there were tears in his own eyes. 

“Uh- yeah. Yeah.” Sam exhaled and ran a hand down his face. 

“I am sincerely sorry for your loss, and I’m glad for your recovery. I’m proud of you, Sam.” Castiel offered, and at that, Sam seemed to deflate. What a wound, this man carried. Castiel loved him, then. He’d realized he had found a family in Sam Winchester. 

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam placated and shook his head as though to clear it. “Anyway, yeah, Dean thought you were a veteran like him. Guess he was wrong.” 

Castiel gave him another book and pursed his lips, tried to muster up the courage to ask his next question. He thought of the scars on Dean’s face. His arm. 

“He was injured?” He finally wondered, and Sam nodded. They’d depleted the cart of new arrivals and wheeled it back to the front. 

“Yeah. It’s Dean’s story to tell, but it’s why he’s here with me. All we’ve ever had are each other. Makes sense to stick together for now, y’know?” 

Castiel thought of Jack, and the inherent comfort of him. The feel of his heartbeat against Castiel while he held him, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed and Castiel watched and watched. The warmth of his small body tucked against Castiel’s side when the nights felt too dark and empty not to hold him while he slept. 

“I know.” Castiel said. “Why Oregon? I thought the two of you were from Kansas.” 

Sam ticked his head to the side thoughtfully, something he’d picked up, Castiel thought warmly, from him and Jack. “A new start. It’s a different world up here, honestly. I think Dean needed green, after all that sand.” 

The words struck Castiel as rather beautiful. Sam’s mind, he’d learned, was a thorned but beautiful thing. A beautiful boy, indeed. 

— 

The next time Castiel saw Dean was at the grocery store. It hadn’t been too long since the dinner at the Winchesters’, and even more recently still the revelation of Dean’s service. Now that Castiel had been made aware, he saw it in the line of the other man’s shoulders, the meld of his ankles. Even as he stared unseeingly at a display of tomato sauce, Dean Winchester was at attention.

Jack, who was kicking his legs against Castiel’s stomach, whined loudly in protest of his seated prison. Castiel grimaced when Dean looked up at the sound. 

“Cas.” Dean said, brows furrowed as walked toward them. . 

Castiel felt his face go numb, and his palms began to slip around the handle of the cart. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel replied and offered him a contrite smile. Dean gave him one of his own, increased in their frequency and to which Castiel was quickly becoming addicted. 

“Sup, Cas. What’s his issue?” Dean asked, and it was not annoyed or put-out, despite his choice in words, but curious. 

“He’d rather walk around with me, but if I let him out I won’t be able to shop without losing him. He wanders off.” Castiel explained, but Jack was quickly distracted when he caught sight of Dean. 

“Dean!” The toddler screeched, rocking back and forth with tears in his eyes. “Out!”

Dean was taken aback, but ultimately shrugged his shoulders and offered, “I could watch him.” 

Castiel searched Dean’s face for contrasting feelings, and found nothing but soft insistence. He felt his face flush, and fiddled with the buttons on his coat. The times where he wasn’t roped into Dean’s gaze, alluring and beautiful and green as it was, he found himself unable to return it, the nerves in his stomach weighed his eyes down or away. 

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt your shopping.” Castiel sighed, forcing his eyes up again, steeled himself with a bite of his jaw. Dean shrugged and shuffled his feet. 

“I just needed the sauce, so I’m done.” Dean reassured him, shaking a glass jar. Castiel nodded then, and unbuckled Jack from the seat, who gushed happily, unintelligible. The bookkeeper pulled his legs out and set the boy down, who immediately hopped over to Dean and craned his neck to squint at him. 

“Dean!” He announced again, and with that Castiel pushed his cart onward, his neck still burning at the sight of his son and the man Castiel was increasingly enamoured with fondly staring at each other. 

“C’mon, buddy, gotta help your dad out.” Dean grunted, and the two of them followed Castiel silently for a moment, until Jack began skipping ahead. 

“Cereal, daddy!” He demanded, and Castiel conceded by turning down the breakfast aisle. 

“Woah, there, kid. Slow down.” Dean called after him, stepping wider to catch up with him. He settled his hand heavily on the back of Jack’s neck, who stopped abruptly at the contact. That’d always been effective in getting Jack to still, and Castiel’s heart thumped at Dean’s inquisitive instinct to do it. 

“Thank you, Dean. Really.” Castiel sighed, shoveling a couple of boxes of Cookie Crisp into the basket. He then noticed Dean’s jar of sauce dangling nearly out of his coat pocket, and stepped close to grab it before it could fall and shatter. Dean inhaled sharply at their closeness, and Castiel looked up at him, the heady scent of his cologne thick in his nose. 

Surely, it was cologne, but it was unlike anything Castiel had ever smelt. The looming sting of gasoline, the soft give of old leather, a lingering hint of cinnamon. It permeated his veins like hot glue, sticky and scorching. He felt his entire body flush, and he forced himself back again. 

“The jar.” He muttered softly, setting it into his cart. “It was going to fall.” 

Dean stared at him wordlessly until Jack reached up and patted on Dean’s pinned sleeve. 

“Like cereal?” He asked, unceremoniously, and Dean gaped, he and Castiel both struck breathless by Jack’s thoughtless touch. 

“Dean, I’m so sorry, he doesn’t understand-,” 

Dean cut him off with a loaded look and took a grounding step back, before he looked at Jack and said, sounding choked, “Yeah, kid, I like cereal.” 

Jack deflated into pleased laughter, and Castiel felt shame pulse in his ears. 

“Cookie Crisp!” Jack informed him loudly, before promptly stepping after Dean again and reaching his arms up for him. Castiel felt like he was about to rip out of his own skin, appalled by his son’s complete lack of social awareness. To be fair, he was three, but something about it all happening in front of Dean left Castiel mortified.

He scowled at the boy, already planning a stern conversation on tact, when a hand settled on his shoulder. 

“Don’t, Cas. It’s okay.” Dean said, and Castiel looked at him again. He hadn’t realized how close Dean had gotten. Castiel could see the varying definitions of green in his eyes, the depth of the indented scar on his chin. 

Something about looking at Dean made everything very quiet. 

Castiel nodded once, not trusting his mouth, and Dean’s hand slipped from his shoulder, leaving a patch on his coat that must have scorched and crumbled to ash. 

Dean went down on one knee and Jack, as instinctive as Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, scrambled onto Dean’s thigh and into the crook of his arm. Dean hoisted him up, rose in an unwavering line, and Castiel watched as the muscles danced in his legs. 

After a moment, he released a held breath. 

They didn’t speak much further for the duration of Castiel’s shopping. Dean walked beside him, holding his child, silent and guarded. 

Castiel left the store that day knowing still nothing yet of Dean Winchester, but confident in the knowledge and inevitably of falling. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! Y’all really seem to like this and I’m really into writing it so I think we’ve got a good thing going! Hope you enjoy the new chapter, sorry for the lack of destiel in this one, but I have such a need for Sam/Cas friendship and this is my outlet for it, lmao

When Gabriel died, Castiel was left gaping and smoldering, like a fresh caldera. The peak and earth of him had been blown apart, shattered plates of him scuttled into the void and burned in the cloying, inescapable agony of magma and ruin. 

He wondered, if he hadn’t seen it, watched every moment of it, it wouldn’t have hurt so much. 

But, he had seen it. He’d watched, albeit through a film of blood and a concussion, unable to move and unable to scream, but he’d watched. 

No, having seen it or not, Castiel would have still hurt like this. 

Some days were certainly better than others, especially now that Jack was in his life, the lifeblood of him that flowed through his veins was brighter even than the glaring red of Gabriel’s spilt blood under his fingernails. 

Today was not one of those days. 

Today, he was a husked and dried shell, not unlike a felled tree, blasted backwards to the ground from the force of an explosion, the desolation of the subsequent landslide of ash and rock. 

He hadn’t opened the shop. He didn’t plan to. He had called Sam and told him to enjoy a day of rest. So that Castiel could broil in the emptiness he’d woke up to that wiped him of color, of life. 

So that he could sit there, on the edge of his bed, and stare unseeingly out at the grey curtain of never ceasing rain outside his window. 

Sam had said it was a different world here. The peninsula, he must have meant, and Castiel agreed. It was. It was an alien planet, wet and textured and increasingly green. Castiel had once thought there were more shades of blue, than any other color, faced with the sky as he was, having seen other oceans not dyed black by permanent cloud cover. 

He’d since been proven wrong. There were more shades of green than any other color. So many different versions of it there, and a plethora of them, he’d found in Dean Winchester’s eyes. 

Thinking of Dean Winchester in that moment felt blasphemous. He banished the thought of him. Castiel wanted to keep him unblemished by the tentacles of black that stained his mind. He was not surprised that the thought of Dean, and by extension Sam, found itself in the closed and sheltered box that Jack lived in, when Castiel’s head was like this. 

They would be safe there. 

He was grateful that Jack still slept. Castiel looked over his shoulder, where Jack was tangled in the navy comforter, arms splayed out and lips pursing in and out in his sleep. In the middle of the night, Castiel had stolen him from his crib, when he’d jolted out of his bed, panting and crying, pulled mercifully from the nightmare of a memory. 

In moments like those, holding Jack was the only way to slow Castiel’s breathing, stopping his tears. 

It’d been five years since Gabriel’s death, three since Jack was born. Castiel wondered where he’d be, if Jack hadn’t come into his life. If that woman, Kelly Kline, had not been planning to pursue a life in politics that left no space for a child. Wondered if Gabriel had never died, Castiel would’ve never gone searching for warmth in whoever offered it, even a woman. 

The thought sent him spiraling, and again he was pushed under a fog of grey that left him hollowed. 

Therefore, it took him a bit too long to hear the knocking at his door. 

Sparing Jack a glance, Castiel forced himself upright and through his small apartment. It sat above The Cloth of Dreams, and most of the time Castiel loved it. It was warm, and it was his, and it was a lovely place to raise a child. That day, it seemed like a tomb. 

He opened the door, squinting against the cold that rushed in from the outside, and Sam Winchester was standing on the wrought-iron stairs that creeped up to Castiel's home. 

He took one look at Castiel and pursed his lips, eyebrows scrunched together. “I knew something was wrong.” 

Castiel squinted harder, but ushered Sam inside and out of the rain. The man seemed all the more large in Castiel’s small space, as he shook the rain off his jacket and swelled towards the buffeting heat of the fireplace. 

“I’m happy to see you, Sam, but what are you doing here?” He asked, not unkindly, perhaps hollowly, and Sam looked at him pensively. 

“I can tell when someone is off. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He offered, slumping onto Castiel’s couch. His knees rose comically for how long his legs were and for how low the couch sat to the ground. 

Castiel lowered himself into his patched armchair and regarded him. 

Hearing that Sam was a recovering addict, it filled in bits and pieces Castiel hadn’t understood before. The shaky flights of his hands, the habitual tapping along the crook of his elbow, the lingering gaunt in his face he tried to hide with long curtains of hair. 

He’d lost someone, like Castiel had. 

“Tell me about your fiancé.” Castiel said, and he was tired and depressed enough not to care about tact. 

Sam nodded minutely, tapped his fingers in his elbow, before he looked at the fire for a long moment. 

“Her name was Jessica.” He began, and he didn't look at Castiel, just the firegrate. “She was going to medical school. She loved keeping plants, and she bleached her hair, and she smelled like coconut.” 

He voice broke, ever so slightly, on coconut. Castiel mourned for her. Could feel Sam’s agony for her slip up his bones, unbidden but there. 

“I loved her.” Sam finished, and when he looked at Castiel again, there were no tears in his eyes. A defeat, yes, even a modicum of acceptance, but mostly understanding. 

Deep seated patience and knowing and Castiel began to cry. 

“I miss him.” He shuddered, and Sam was there, yanking Castiel out of his chair and pulling him against his chest, tucking Castiel’s head beneath his chin with a large hand to the back of his neck. 

Castiel had not been held like that for a long time. Not since Gabriel. 

He cried into Sam’s chest, sagging, exhausted, into his embrace, and Sam simply held him there. Rocked them slowly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam said at last, pulling away from Castiel to catch his eye. His hands remained on his shoulders, a heavy pressure that kept Castiel tethered to the Earth. Castiel heaved a shuddering breath to ground himself further. 

He was not used to being vulnerable. In fact, all of this was inherently foreign to him. 

Lucifer; captor, master, never brother, latched onto emotion. Caught it, manipulated it, exploited it. 

Castiel had learned, eventually, not to feel anything. 

Gabriel never broke. He had always done his best to make Castiel smile, and though nothing else could, he had often succeeded. 

Although, Castiel never truly knew the muscle comfort of smiling until Jack was born. 

Stood here, cradled by a man that was as tall as Lucifer but so completely different from him in a way even Gabriel never was, Castiel found that he did want to talk about it. 

He had, in a way, talked about it once before. Analytically, for months, during Lucifer’s trial. Sat behind a wooden post, pinned to the corkboard of law like a particularly fascinating insect, bade to recount in detail how Gabriel sounded when he’d choked on his blood. 

He’d tried therapy, and to an extent, talking about it then had benefited him. It removed his urge to throw himself off a bridge and into the putrid, black waters of the Hudson. Instead, he’d roamed the country. Homeless, listless, transferring from bus to bus, searching for an explanation as to why Gabriel had to die so that Castiel could live. 

He’d found that answer in Jack. 

This was all to say, Castiel had never talked about Gabriel with a friend before. 

“Gabriel was strange.” Castiel began stiltedly. “In life, I thought it made him weak. I realize now it made him stronger than I’ll ever be.” 

Sam lowered Castiel back into his chair, and took his place once more on the couch. 

“I think you’re pretty strong, Cas.” Sam frowned, and Castiel chuckled mirthlessly. 

“Not like Gabriel. He was always laughing. Always finding reasons to smile when there were none. He kept me human.” Castiel continued, eyes drawn to the fire. The flickering reds and oranges and golds. 

Gabriel had gold, waving hair. Though Castiel and Gabriel, like all of the Shurley children, were adoptive siblings, Castiel chose to perpetuate the fantasy that Jack inherited the texture and color of his hair from his Uncle. 

Serendipitously, Gabriel’s eyes were the same color as his curls. At times, it had been almost disturbing, like he was burning from the inside out, the flames leaking from his scalp and scorching through his pupils. 

“I know loss, Cas, I do. But I can’t imagine losing Dean. I’m so sorry.” Sam offered, and he seemed to feel helpless, eyes wet and limbs dancing with a kind of restlessness. Castiel forgot how much younger Sam was than him; boyhood still clung to him, despite the bruises of life that tried to hide it beneath their lilac staining. 

Castiel lost a brother, and that wound would always fester, ripe with a fever hot infection, but Sam. Sam Winchester was a brother to him now in ways none of his other siblings ever were. He was a balm, he was understanding, he was the found family Castiel’s adoption all those long years ago always should have been. Castiel had not loved someone like he loved Sam in a very long time, if ever, and strangely, the feeling was kin to Castiel’s love for Jack. Protective, pure, easy. 

Having that here, having Sam here, presented to him with no ulterior motives, no reward to reap, Castiel found himself coming back to life. 

“Thank you, Sam.” Castiel said softly, and smiled quite genuinely. Sam relaxed some, and his hands released from their fists in a splay of long, knobbed fingers. 

“No problem, Cas. How about I call Dean and we all go get breakfast together? Might be good for you to get out of the house, y’know?” Sam offered gently, eyes wide with persuasion. Sam had green eyes like his brother, but they swayed along the bluer side, something oceanic perpetuated their depth.

Oftentimes, Castiel could not easily see the Winchesters’ resemblance, but in a certain light, at a certain angle, perhaps even a particular expression, it was clearly evident. When the sun was out, Castiel caught the light dusting of freckles high on Sam’s nose, the same in color and shape as his brother’s. When Dean pursed his lips, or rolled his eyes, Castiel could see Sam spelled out on his face like a mirage. Something about knowing these things made Castiel’s chest roil with pleased satisfaction. 

“I would like that very much, let me wake Jack.” Castiel decided. Sam lit up with a grin and patted his knees. 

“Great! I’ll go start the car and get it warmed up while I call Dean.” He hummed, getting up with a breathy grunt to let himself out. 

Castiel resigned himself to waking up his son and the consequential fit, but he smiled anyway. That was more than he could say about a day like this since he’d first known them. 

—

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know each chapter is fairly short, but- this fic is so incredibly self-indulgent with every possible troupe I enjoy stuffed into it and I’m kind of looking at it as an experiment in self-care and not taking myself or my writing too seriously so I’m gonna post these short ass chapters as I see fit!!! But!!! Thanks for reading this anyway!! I hope you enjoy :)

Castiel peeled his elbow off the speckled Formica and shared an unimpressed look with Sam. The younger man smirked and tucked his chin to his chest, eyes flickering briefly to Dean. 

Expectedly, Castiel followed suit. He had come to the conclusion upon seeing Dean again that had Sam’s offered catharsis earlier that morning not done the job, seeing the elder Winchester would have. 

He was tucked into a cup of coffee, his hair spewed out to one side in a messy lick of light brown, eyes barely opened. He looked soft in a way he never had before, collarbone visible through the stretched collar of a worn hoodie. The grey light did wonders for his freckles, nearly drawing them black against the washed out pale of his skin. 

Castiel forced himself to look away. He would look forever. 

The silence at the table was comfortable. The later hours of the morning were still creaking in their bones and stealing their tongues. Jack had fallen asleep on the car ride over, and his head was now on Castiel’s shoulder as he slumbered in his lap. 

The waitress, however, broke it, flitting over with a new decanter of coffee to set on the table beside the emptied one. She was sunny and smiling when she asked, “You guys ready yet?” 

Castiel looked at her name tag. “Yes, Audrey, thank you. I’ll have the pb and j pancakes, please, and a chocolate milk.” 

Audrey nodded, her blonde hair bouncing, and looked to Sam and Dean on the other side of the booth. Dean blinked one eye open with Herculean effort but Sam smiled blindingly at her. 

“The egg whites on toast, thanks!” Sam requested, and glanced at Dean before he continued with, “And he’ll have three fried eggs and bacon.” 

“Got it. That’ll be right out.” Audrey promised sweetly, before she turned on her heel and headed back towards the kitchen. 

“You know each other well.” Castiel remarked, shifting Jack to his side, where he flopped awake and scowled. 

“Yeah, well, nearly twenty years in close quarters will do that to you.” Dean grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He reached over Sam to pour himself more coffee. Without asking, he refilled Castiel’s. His stomach warmed and he had to look away again. 

“Close quarters?” Castiel tried, and he knew, somewhat, that their father was often absent, abusive even, that Dean raised Sam, but not much else. 

“If we weren’t sharing that shitty queen in our Uncle Bobby’s house in South Dakota, we were living outta hotel rooms.” Dean offered, and his voice was thick and grating with exhaustion. Absentmindedly, he rubbed at the end of his pinned sleeve, eyebrows furrowed with a small show of discomfort. 

“I see.” Castiel said, and he supposed it was lacking, but he knew better than to push. This confession from Dean was hard won, the first of their childhood Castiel was learning not from Sam, but from Dean. He tucked it away like a dragon coveting rubies. “I’ve seen my share of hotel rooms.” 

Before either of the Winchesters could reply, Audrey returned with a boxed chocolate milk and retreated with a silent smile. Castiel removed the straw and pierced the box before he handed it to Jack. Grumpily, and yet still wordlessly, Jack took it and began to decimate it. 

“You have?” Sam asked, sipping from his glass of water, eyebrows raised expectantly. Castiel tumbled with an answer that he proved appropriate for his son. 

“After Gabriel died, I was homeless for three years. In the colder months, I’d save what money I had for lodging.” He explained stiltedly, busying his hands with the canister of sugar. He added a healthy amount to his coffee. 

Dean sucked air through his teeth, and Castiel looked up at the sound. His mouth hung open. It looked soft, inviting and wet. Castiel forced his gaze back up, picking a safe space to stare at above Dean’s right eyebrow. There was a scar there. “That’s rough, Cas.” 

Sam made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat and stared incredulously at his brother. “Dude. That’s rough?” 

Dean shrugged, and gestured to Cas, meeting his eyes defensively. “What? Cas knows what I mean. Jesus. You’re as bad as Milton.” 

“Who’s Milton?” Jack asked, perking up in the booth, struggling up on his knees to rest his elbows on the table like the rest of them. Sam regarded him happily, excited that the boy was now properly awake, and Dean blossomed toward him similarly. Castiel was, admittedly, reverent of his son’s affect on the Winchesters. Prideful, too. 

“She’s my shrink.” Dean told him, eyes fluttering Castiel’s way. Pink rose in the apples of his cheeks, painted his skin a ruddy sunrise of orange and magenta and gold. Castiel sighed, trapped to the sight like a winged insect to sugar and soap. 

“Shrink? She little?” Jack pondered excitedly, pinching two fingers together as though to indicate something very small. Sam chuckled, and repeated the action, though he shook his head. 

“No, she’s not small. That’s a word some people use to describe a kind of doctor.” Sam explained patiently. “Dr. Milton is a doctor for your head. She makes Dean happier.” 

Jack thought on that for a moment, before, in an act of raw compassion that left Castiel breathless, settled his tiny hand on Dean’s large, scarred one where it rested around the lip of his cup . “I make you happier too now, ‘kay?” 

Castiel watched Dean’s breath stutter. Slowly, he removed his hand from his cup to flip it palm up and curl his fingers around Jack’s. He looked at the boy, jaw working beneath the stubbled skin, and something was melting in him, leaked from him molten light. 

“Thank you, Jack.” He said at last, perhaps too genuinely for speaking with a three year old, but Jack simply broke into a glowing smile and jumped a little in his seat, pushing Castiel over in his haste to lean closer to Dean. 

“You make me happy, too!” He announced. Then he took his hand away, and Dean floundered for a moment, before he curled his hand softly into a fist and set it on the table. Jack turned to Sam, who was grinning unabashedly, and Jack giggled. “And Sammy three!” 

“Jack, you are ridiculous.” Castiel said fondly, and Jack turned to him as though only just remembering he was there. He immediately fell back into Castiel’s space, and he was pinned beneath the weight that was his son’s complete and utter devotion to him. Jack’s love for Castiel was a golden, pulsing, tangible thing, and it was Castiel’s prized possession. He knew it was an effortless, instinctual phenomenon, for a child to love their parent, but Jack’s love for him had never failed to make Castiel feel special, real. 

Jack’s hands found homes on either side of Castiel’s face, and he leant forward to press a soft, fluttering kiss to his nose. Castiel's chest sung. 

“You the most, daddy.” Jack said simply, before he pulled away just to try and burrow inside of him, plucking at his sweater and nudging aside Castiel’s arms in order to make a place for himself in Castiel’s lap. He was only satisfied when he’d made Castiel a glorified booster seat, and Castiel ran a hand through his pale hair and huffed a fond laugh. 

“You’re raising him right.” 

Castiel glanced up again, hands still distractedly messing with his son’s hair, and there was Dean. He had obviously been watching, but most astonishing was his expression. It was indescribably gentle, and more so, fond. Castiel had never seen Dean express himself like that before. Castiel blushed, the praise like bees under his skin, swarming and hot, and he ducked his head. 

“I appreciate that more than you know.” He said quietly, and he saw Sam watching them out of the corner of his eye. His observation was thoughtful and heavy. 

Breakfast arrived shortly after, and Jack made a mess of his and Castiel’s shared pancakes, smeared jelly and peanut butter all over himself and Castiel, and the table. Sam couldn't stop laughing the whole way through, and Dean’s voice rumbled happily as he joked and quipped about Jack’s growing appetite. The diner rang with Jack’s unfiltered laughter. 

Castiel was quiet, content to observe and smile, and he wondered how nothing else short of Jack had ever pulled him from the brink so quickly, so succinctly. The fog of that morning seemed far away now, never gone, but somewhere else for the moment. The door was closed behind it. 

He stopped thinking about it, contented himself with the present, ate and laughed and smiled and fell ever more in love with the Winchesters. 

—-

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha sorry it’s been awhile! I hope how long it is and all the destiel content makes up for it!!! Thanks everyone for your kind words and love for the story!! Please leave kudos and comments I live off them :D 
> 
> -Richie

The Cloth of Dreams was never particularly busy, but it did well enough. Set as it was in a rainy, little village just South of Astoria, it drew in its fair share of tourists. Castiel couldn't blame them, well-aware of the timeless whimsy a shop like his had to offer. A warm safe-haven, an unmatched, well worn aesthetic, the storytelling of childhood packaged for adult consumption. Castiel knew nothing of people, not in any real way, but he knew how to run a business, how to do it kindly. 

That day, however, was a Thursday and Thursdays were always slow. It had no rhyme or reason, just as steady and incomprehensible as the tide. 

“A B C D-,” Jack paused, squinted thoughtfully at Castiel. “E!”

“Yes.” Castiel confirmed, and pointed to the picture book between them. They were sprawled beneath the window, soaking in the rare sunlight as it shattered and broke in sprays of yellow across the pill carpet. It bounced off of Jack’s hair, summoned gold in his eyes. Castiel was struck not for the first time with his son’s beauty. He similarly wondered how he could have ever produced something so bright. 

“What’s next?” he prompted further, but they were interrupted by the bell over the door.

Castiel looked up and there was Dean. 

“Dean!” Jack exclaimed, stumbling upright to throw himself into Dean’s denimed legs. Castiel’s heart stuttered when Dean just laughed, warm and cloying and as buttery as the noon.

Running his hand through Jack’s hair, as natural as anything, as breathing, the older Winchester said, “Hey, buddy.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel swallowed, and he started forward, his intent to hug the other man, but he caught himself quickly, horror caught in his throat. Thankfully, Dean didn’t notice, too busy pulling something out of the bag clipped across his chest. Which was broad, expansive; solid. Castiel tried and failed to avert his eyes. 

“Hey, Cas. Brought y’all some grub.” Dean grumbled gently, shuttered suddenly in a way he hadn’t been with Jack. It burned Castiel, in a small way, but it was easily overcome by gratitude. Dean had pulled out a large, greasy paper bag that smelled mouthwatering. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Castiel stressed, catching Dean’s flighty eyes. The feeling accompanied with the knowledge of his space in Dean’s mind was scorching. He'd never been cared for quite like this. It was addicting. So was having Dean’s eyes on him. 

“I was in town. Thought I’d stop by. No big deal.” Dean said, eyes flickering down and away again. His cheeks bloomed, flesh brightening sweetly. Castiel was too involved now to deny that the sight was beautiful. In fact, his mouth was going dry and his legs prickled with static. 

“Regardless, thank you, Dean.” Castiel sighed, and inevitably, as it turned out, they were caught in each other’s gaze. 

“What is it?” Jack demanded rudely, and loudly for that matter. He was attempting, now, to climb Dean so as to steal the bag right out of his hand. Dean, with a smirk, let him. 

“Burgers, little dude. Burgers.” Dean grinned, and handed the bag to the boy, freeing his arm so as to bend slightly and pick him up. Jack teared into the bag, giggling and squirming happily in Dean’s grip. Dean made his way to the vaulted counter and deposited food and toddler onto its surface. The sight, almost painfully domestic, crackled up Castiel’s bones. 

“I love burgers.” Castiel said simply, and Jack screeched his agreement. Dean blinked wildly and shared an amused glance with Castiel, who could not contain a small puff of laughter. 

“Me too, man. I grabbed one for myself. Mind if I eat with you guys?” Dean asked, polite and soft, and Castiel wondered where the mysterious soldier went, with his tense arm and shuttered eyes. Castiel found that he liked this Dean far better. 

“Of course not.” Castiel assured, and he grabbed himself a hamburger, stood close enough to feel Dean’s warmth. Neither of them moved or shifted away. They stood shoulder to shoulder, quiet befalling them save for the muted sounds of them eating. 

“How’d you get this place?” Dean asked at last, setting down his burger to absentmindedly wipe ketchup off of Jack’s cheek. Castiel gaped for a moment, tried to find the wherewithal to reply. 

“I eventually inherited Gabriel’s accounts.” Castiel told him finally, swallowing thickly. He watched Dean’s throat bob as he ate for another moment. 

“Your brother, right? He, ah-,” Dean’s eyes flickered uncomfortably to Jack, who was humming and rocking as he ate, oblivious. 

“Yes. Him.” Castiel confirmed, chest flipping. He pushed those thoughts away. It didn’t do well to get stuck on them, especially now. “I assume Sam told you about it.” 

Dean nodded jerkily. “Some.” He admitted gruffly, almost contritely. Castiel laid a free hand on Dean’s arm, just above where it ended, and the move was not thought through, but Castiel committed once he’d started. Knew, in a way, that all Dean wanted was to be treated normally. Which was obviously what he deserved, what was right. 

To Dean’s credit, all he did was suck in a quick breath. Castiel squeezed his bicep once, before he slowly, indulgently slid his hand away. 

He steeled himself and confessed, “I found myself with more money than I’d seen in my entire life, an online business degree, and a newborn. When I saw the listing, I took it before I had any form of plan.” 

Castiel looked at Dean, searched his face for judgement or apprehension. He found nothing but curiosity and a small amount of knowing. So, Castiel continued, “Mostly, I chose this shop because of the apartment upstairs. Jack and I were living in a shelter just before. I wanted to put a roof over my son’s head before I did anything else.” 

Admitting that Jack had suffered from Castiel’s homelessness was hard. He swallowed around a thickening lump in his throat, and steadfastly avoided Dean’s eyes as he went on. He wanted Dean to know, needed him to understand for reasons Castiel was quickly failing at his refusal to acknowledge. 

“Jack was an infant, and he’ll never remember-,” Castiel glanced at his son, who had finished his meal and was currently plucking at one of the buttons on Dean’s flannel, attention elsewhere. “But my failure at providing him stability, shelter, at times even food, is one I’ll never forgive myself for. The Cloth of Dreams, it’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, yes, but it started as a means to an end. I’m still unbelieving at times that it’s lasted, that I’ve lasted, that it’s come to this.” He gestured to the shop at large, punctuating his monologue with a small quirk of his lips. 

“You did the best you could, Cas.” Dean said vehemently, brow furrowed, eyes hard. Castiel gazed at him, breathless, and Dean, determinedly, allowed him to. After a long, silent moment, Castiel made himself look away. 

“Maybe one day I’ll believe that.” Castiel sighed, so softly it was nearly inaudible. Dean, however, heard him fine. 

“Cas, you and I both know about sh-,” Dean censored himself with a huff and his hand through Jack’s hair. “Crappy fathers. I see you with Jack and I-, it’s nothing like that. Like how I grew up or how you grew up. You're doing a pretty fine job with him. Give yourself some credit.”

Castiel blinked, jaw creaking open. He’d never heard Dean say so much at once. The words, they were validating and that which Castiel had been needing to hear for so long that tears threatened to well up in the corners of his eyes. 

He fought with his reply behind his teeth, chewed them and broke them to pieces again and again until they hurt less to say, “Thank you, Dean. I needed that.” 

Dean made a gentle noise in his throat, and this time he was the one to touch. His hand came down hard in the crook of Castiel’s neck and squeezed. Castiel’s breath hitched. 

“Sorry no one told you sooner, man.” Dean whispered, and Castiel tucked the words behind his ribs, kindling for a fire that already roared hot and bright. 

“What do you do, Dean?” Castiel found himself asking, gathering their accumulated trash and retreating behind the counter to dispose of it. Dean let Jack down with a grunt, who had long since been bored with their adult conversation and ran off. 

Dean watched him go as he formed his response, scarred knuckles rapping on the counter. 

“Before I enlisted, I was a mechanic.” Dean told him and brushed his hand over his jaw. He kept a light stubble there, like Castiel did, and Castiel wondered what it would sound like, if they brushed their chins together. He shook his head, clearing it so as to absorb what Dean had shared. 

It made sense for Dean to have been a mechanic. Sharp, cunning eyes that often made Castiel feel as if he were being picked apart and put back together again. The way his remaining hand moved, deft and steady. Dean Winchester fixed things. 

“And now?” Castiel prompted, watched the pink grow in one of Dean's cheeks quicker than the other. He wondered if it was the nature of facial scarring like Dean’s. 

“I haven’t gotten to that point yet.” Dean finally said, and as he was wont to do, rubbed at his residual limb. It occured to Castiel then that Dean’s days as a mechanic were over. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Castiel asked. He was aware that beneath Dean’s visible control a storm of earth and wind prevailed. Treading carefully was wise. 

For all of Castiel’s knowledge of Dean’s unpredictable temperament, all he did was breathe harshly through is nose. 

“Yeah, I did. I fucking loved it.” He admitted quietly, like it was something to be ashamed of. “There’s something about being in an engine. I understand the guts of a car better that I understand just about anything besides Sammy.” 

Castiel was rendered breathless. The raw tremor in Dean’s voice, the broken confession. Each time Castiel learned something new about Dean, it was completely and irrevocably fascinating to him. Dean liked to fix cars. Castiel recognized the sharp smell of gasoline, and could see in his mind’s eye Dean’s hand painted with oil, lean body dressed in an endearingly stained coverall. 

“What would you like to do?” Castiel pushed, perhaps asked for too much, but he was unable to resist. He wanted more. By God, he wanted all of it. Wanted to crack Dean open and crawl in next to his lungs, his heart. Dean’s eyes stuck on him, as green as the canopy of trees that stamped the surrounding mountains. 

“I want to restore old cars, like my Baby.” Dean uttered, wistfully even, and gestured to his shining behemoth of a car through the window. It glittered like a precious stone in the weak sun. 

Castiel couldn't help his fond smile, and he ducked his head to hide it. Dean clicked his tongue, and Castiel’s head whipped right back up. 

“Don’t hide those from me.” Dean said disapprovingly. This time, it was Castiel whose face melted, hot and red. “They’re few and far between as it is.” 

Dean was grinning, plush, bitten lips curved, the bottom one ran through with a thin, white scar. Castiel couldn’t breathe. He was completely speechless. 

The other man scanned his face for another long moment, and once he realized Castiel was currently incapable of speech, he shrugged. 

“I don’t know if I can pull it off, but fuck if I don’t want to try.” He sighed, and Castiel rediscovered his tongue. 

“Then you should, Dean.” Castiel sucked in a much needed breath. “I don’t know you as well as I’d like to yet, but Dean, there is no doubt in my mind that you could do it.” 

Dean balked, openly shocked, and it was something amazing, that he no longer censored himself; he had ceased to hide from Castiel every emotion that bled watercolors of expression across his face. Castiel felt as if his feet did not touch the ground. 

“Damn, Cas.” Dean hissed, breath sneaking through his teeth. “Means a lot, man.”

Castiel nodded, still blushing, and cursed his filterless sincerity. 

Eventually, Dean did leave, with bashful smiles and a waving hand. A knuckle to Jack’s chin. 

Castiel watched until the car disappeared behind the aisle of bricked buildings on the street. His jaw ached from grinning. 

—


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry about the wait! This chapter gave me hell!! But, I live in Texas so I didn’t have power for like 72 hours and I still don’t have water so,,, what did I do? I edited every previous chapter to the now preferred and suggested past tense, and finished this chapter! So yeah, don’t you worry you guys, I am still in love and dedicated to this story! For your peace of mind, I do know exactly where this story is going and have for awhile so have faith in me! This story WILL be told in full!! Now, whether I’m reassuring myself of that, or you, we may never know! Enjoy!  
> -Richie

Castiel pulled up alongside the curb on Lebanon Street and eyed the Impala in the driveway with jittering hands. 

He knew, objectively, that it was commonplace to ask your friends for help. Normal, even, that they’d agree. However, it was not Sam he was after. Sam was back at The Cloth of Dreams, manning the shop with crusty eyes and a slew of yawns. No, it was Dean who Castiel needed. 

As if he did not already need him as desperately as he did air. 

“Dean?” Jack asked excitedly, and Castiel met his son’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Their color was blue, like Castiel’s, but different in shade. Darker, greyer, and struck through, Castiel had only recently noticed, with sage greens. As if Castiel didn’t have a loose enough grip on reality already. Jack’s eyes were certainly identical to his own, at least, in shape and genuity. 

“Perhaps.” Castiel answered distractedly. He stared at his hands, white knuckled around the steering wheel, and tried to quell the winged things in his gut. 

Surely, he and Dean were friends by now. Castiel was best friends with his younger brother, they’d eaten together so many times that Castiel could not help but think of Dean every time he took a meal. They’d traded stories, secrets, grins that Castiel had coveted like polaroid pictures; he had a rapidly growing rolodex in his mind of each smile Dean had directed his way. He trusted him around his child- in fact, Dean held Jack more often than he didn’t, same as Sam. The Winchesters were weirdly insistent at having the boy in their arms at all times. Castiel was definitely not going to refuse them of that. Jack was, in Castiel’s admittedly biased opinion, a Winchester’s best accessory. 

Castiel considered his people skills and social aptitude rather rusty, but he thought he and Dean  _ must _ be friends. If not friends, what else could they be? Which began this relentless cycle of nerves anew. He artfully dodged the only conceivable answer and forced his anxiety to remain nameless.

Whatever they were, it should not be unreasonable to knock, uninvited, on Dean’s door on a late Monday morning and ask him for his help with an errand that was, arguably, quite simple. 

“Cas!” 

Castiel jumped and turned in his seat to see Dean leant down and smirking at him through the glass. The bookkeeper blushed furiously, felt the heat grow in his ears, and rolled the window down. The rain-pebbled glass had filtered Dean, and now with it out of the way, he was nothing short of breathtaking. Castiel wondered if he’d ever get used to it. 

“Hello, Dean!” Jack yelled, eagerly kicked the back of Castiel’s seat. He heaved a warbling sigh, and Dean shook with silent laughter. 

“He stole your line.” Dean snickered, and then he leaned forward, resting his arm on the lip of Castiel’s car window. The proximity did well to rid Castiel’s mouth of all moisture, his flesh pimpled all down his arms. He was suddenly very glad for his coat. 

“It seems he has.” Castiel breathed, and Dean gave him a very small smile. Castiel blushed impossibly deeper. He was quickly approaching previously unreached levels of mortification. 

“He hasn’t stolen mine. Hey, Cas.” he jerked his head in further to wink at Jack. Castiel could smell the clover and spice of his shampoo, could feel the heat eminitiating from the exposed, ruddy skin of his neck. “Sup, Jack.”

“You come with?” Jack squealed, and Dean leaned back again, letting Castiel draw in a much needed breath and met his eyes expectantly. Castiel floundered a second more, mouth gaping stupidly, before he got his wits about him. 

“Would you come with me to the Farmer’s Market? I need assistance in handing out fliers for the shop.” He managed in a graveling rush, gesturing to the piles of paper in the backseat. 

Dean regarded him silently for a moment so long Castiel began to berate himself and curse Sam for ever suggesting Dean would be open to the idea in the first place. 

He’d opened his mouth to apologize and take it all back when Dean shrugged and said, “Yeah, why not.” He pulled back and slapped the hood of Castiel’s continental. “Let me grab my crap.” 

Castiel silently released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and Jack, comparatively, cheered. Dean chuckled softly and Castiel’s brain turned to cotton. 

“Thank you, Dean. I wouldn’t have asked if-,” Castiel was stopped by Dean’s raised hand and piqued brow. 

“Don’t sweat it, Cas, seriously. I want to.” He assured. “I’ll be right back.” 

The next few minutes was spent with Castiel staring unseeingly ahead at the light rain, gathering what small reserves of courage he had. 

—

Castiel thought that Dean Winchester may well be the most interesting person he’d ever met. He was a stunning mosaic of dichotomies; one moment as hot as a solar flare, grin blinding. So effortlessly charismatic that without really knowing why, the average passerby would stop and stare. In the next moment, he was cool, achromatic, and unreachable as a waning moon. Face waxen, pored with scars, eyes caught by something only he could see and that which Castiel could not begin to understand. He was heavy-footed, but gentle handed. He was pale, but freckled. He was foulmouthed, and yet polite. He lived in Oregon, and yet his words stretched and twung with his Southern upbringing. 

In that moment, Dean was standing on a gravelly corner, slightly damp from the film of mist that sat like a hung painting in the air. He was silent, but he smiled each time he passed a flier off to a blushing patron of the market. 

It was unsurprising that Castiel could not pull his eyes away. 

The crowds were thinning, shrinking beneath the thick, grey cloud cover that was quickly impregnating the mist. It summoned mud from between the loosely pressed gravel of the road. The trees around them shushed and moaned with a heavy breeze that suggested an even heavier storm. Castiel regarded the sky, then, with a frown. 

“Dean!” Jack was babbling; the chosen word of the day so far had been just that. The name was all strung together into a rhythmic, ceaseless stream of sound particular only to toddlers. It’d been endless, as had been his presence weaving between Dean’s legs. Castiel thought he should probably be jealous, but that was something hard to do when Jack looked like he belonged there. 

Dean, to his credit, was entirely unbothered, only every once and awhile offering Jack replies in the form of, “Dude, what?”, “Jack, Jack, Jack- eh, how do you like them apples?”, or Castiel’s favorite, “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” 

It was all very charming, and so it was no surprise that Castiel, unlike Dean and Jack, had not rid himself of so much as a fraction of his fliers. In fact, Jack had been empty-hand for a least an hour now, and Dean was down to two or three. 

“I believe we’re done here.” Castiel announced, setting his embarrassingly heft stack of fliers into their empty box. Dean clipped over and tossed in his remaining few papers with an upwards glance. 

“Probably a good idea, it’s about to pour.” he hummed, and Castiel was stuck momentarily on the purse of his lips, the indents they made at the base of his cheeks. 

“Let me make you dinner. As a thank you.” Castiel said all at once. He scanned Dean’s face as he put together his reply, and the only discernible emotion Castiel could catch quickly enough was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it excitement. 

“Sure. Didn’t know you could cook.” Dean said around a smirk, eyebrows wagging in a way that reminded Castiel fondly of Gabriel. 

Castiel smiled softly and replied with a note of secretivity, “I’m adequate.” 

He said no more and reached down to grab the box of fliers. 

Until he realized his hands were full and unable to hold onto a small, flighty child. “Jack, hold Dean’s hand.” he demanded sternly, wary of the small roads ahead, flushed with customers leaving the market. 

Dean looked off-center for a brief moment, but grabbed the little boy’s hand regardless. 

“You know, adequate isn’t exactly promising, Cas.” Dean barked, breaking a small lapse in conversation as they walked through the low-hanging fog. It was stroked through with malleable swaths of yellow headlights. Though they were in public, with people on all sides, the three of them somehow felt alone. 

“Daddy make good pie. I love pie.” Jack pointed out loyally, catching Dean’s gaze with a serious precision. Dean blunk incredulously down at him. Castiel blushed at his son’s sweet words and Dean’s quick catching of his gaze. 

“You’re making pie for dinner?” he asked, and it was almost breathless. Castiel furrowed his brows and set his box on the hood of their reached destination. He turned and finally got a proper look at Dean. 

He and Jack, still linked, were looking at him with twin looks of anticipation and something akin to awe. Despite himself, Castiel’s shoulders straightened out with a soft kind of pride. 

“No. I’m making spaghetti for dinner. I made a pie last night.” Castiel chuckled, turning his back on them to unlock the car. He deposited a box and a small child both in the back. It wasn’t until they were pulling out of the parking lot that Dean spoke up again. 

“What flavor of pie?” 

Castiel’s eyebrows jumped and he stole a glance at the other man. He was staring at him, looking and waiting, earnest and gentle, and Castiel didn’t understand but he was obsessed with it. 

“Cherry. They’re in season.” he sighed, turning back to the road. The rain was getting heavier and his child was in the car. He checked on the boy in the mirror, and he was already fast asleep. 

Neither of them said anything, happily existing in the world that opened between them in their silences, until they pulled up to The Cloth of Dreams. The windows were dark and Sam’s rusted truck was gone. Castiel hadn’t realized it was so late. 

“I’m sorry, Dean.” he checked his watch, saw that it was seven and grimaced. “I didn’t keep track of the time. Would you still like to come up or would you like me to take you back home?” 

Dean shook his head. 

“Don’t worry about the time, man. I’ll come up.” Dean’s smile turned salacious and Castiel’s breath hitched. “I’ll never say no to pie.”

Castiel snorted a small laugh and ducked his head, “Is this what this is about? You’re a fan of pie?”

Dean gave a small chuckle and it was like vinyl music clicking on a needle. Castiel fawned for him. 

“You could say that. Personally, I consider myself a pie connoisseur.” Dean bubbled, and Castiel couldn't help but to fondly roll his eyes and grin at the ceiling of the car. 

“Well, lucky for you, I haven’t cut into the pie yet.” Castiel snorted, and in a thoughtless moment of glee, winked at Dean. The other man erupted with laughter, and Castiel joined him as he exited the car. 

Luckily, the rain hadn’t started yet in earnest and so they made it up the stairs and beneath the overhang without getting soaked. Castiel, however, still shivered as he passed Jack to Dean to unlock the door. 

“I apologize for the mess, I have a three year old.” Castiel warned, kicking in through the door and delighting in the immediate warmth. He kicked off his chilled shoes, and sat on the floor so he could take off Jack’s. 

While he did, he watched Dean take the place in. It was his first time in Castiel’s apartment, and the sight of him there made Castiel’s heart beat a staccato. The amber lamplight embraced Dean, dipping the silhouette of him with a warm, honeyed glow. The soft blankets, pillows, and toys scattered about as the background, Dean was the subject of focus. A muse. Castiel’s breath left him in a rush. 

“Daddy?” 

Castiel turned back to his son, unaware of what he’d been doing, and he offered Jack a contrite smile. Jack giggled groggily and grabbed at Castiel’s eyebrow. “Stare rude, Daddy. Now shoe!” 

All of Castiel’s blood rushed to his face, burned the tips of his ears. He made quick work of his son’s shoe laces, avoiding looking up. 

“S’cozy.” Dean remarked, seemingly unaware of the damning conversation Castiel had been having with his son. Castiel sighed with private relief before he groaned his way back upright. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel said with a small smile, Dean’s eyes caught on him again. He had removed his jacket, thrown it over Castiel’s armchair, and the domesticity was all at once too much. “Please, make yourself comfortable. If you ask nicely, Jack may put on his cartoons for you.” 

Dean’s head tipped back, exposing the lean, tan stretch of his neck as he laughed, and Castiel left at the sight of it, retreating to his kitchen with clammy palms. 

He had exactly one moment to press his forehead into the unrelenting wood of a cabinet and pray for composure before he heard footsteps drawing closer. He threw himself backwards and adjusted his shirt. It had untucked itself from his slacks at one point, and Castiel mourned his sad attempt at professionalism. 

“Aw, Cas, I can’t just sit in the other room while you cook. Poor manners, pal.” Dean protested as he entered the kitchen. He smirked at Castiel, before he distracted himself by the Kuisinart on the counter. “Holy shit, I’ve been looking for one of these.” 

“So it seems like I am not the only baker here.” Castiel joked, endeared by Dean’s excitement. Dean eyed him with a soft flush, and fiddled with the device. 

“Ah, shut up. I just do little things here and there.” Dean grumbled, but his eyes still shone as he handled the attachments. “Besides, these things are just fucking cool.” 

Castiel smiled as he began gathering the supplies to make the spaghetti. “You’re more than welcome to borrow it, Dean.”

Dean snorted and turned around to lean against the counter to, for all intents and purposes, watch Castiel as he worked. He made an abortive moment Castiel didn’t quite understand, before he settled with his palm on the stained granite. The bookkeeper realized after a moment that Dean had been trying to cross his arms. 

“What’s your favorite kind of pie?” Castiel asked as he began dinner, and Dean cleared his throat before he replied. 

“Apple. My mom used to make the best apple pie in Kansas.” Dean shared, and Castiel looked up to glean the other man’s expression. It was hardened, yes, but in an open way. Castiel knew the Winchesters’ mother was dead, but that was the extent of his knowledge. 

“That’s a considerable amount of pressure.” Castiel laughed, lightening the mood as well as he knew how. Dean chuckled after him, eyes brightening again. 

“Yeah, man. Don’t fuck this up.” He replied, and that set the easy tone that accompanied them through the rest of Castiel’s dinner preparation. They laughed together, talked about nothing and everything, and Castiel realized at one point that he’d never known a peace like this. 

It took no small effort to wrangle Jack in his high chair once dinner was ready, and Dean did absolutely nothing to help, simply sat at the table and riled Jack up with funny faces. Once Castiel was able to sit down and tuck in with the other two, he almost couldn’t bring himself to eat. His stomach was rolling and jumping with something hot and blissful. He almost felt high. 

Dean did not hold back his praise, moaning around his food in a way that made Castiel’s slacks rather tight. Every time it seemed like too much, Castiel would attend to his child, and that always did well to calm his wiles. 

Castiel felt out of control. He almost couldn’t recognize himself, shifting in his chair, unable to sit still, mouth throbbing with aching, underused muscles. Dean’s presence was unparalleled, the warmth of him close enough to feel at Castiel’s crowded, circular table. He dreaded the end of the night. 

Eventually, however, dinner ended, and Jack was settled on the couch with a program to ease him into sleep as the adults cleared the table. 

They’d just finished putting the dishes in the sink when Dean announced exuberantly, “I think it’s pie time.” 

Castiel flushed suddenly with a saccharine kind of apprehension, and went to open the refrigerator. He pulled the pie out, untouched as it was, and Dean was already muttering words of praise. 

“Oh fuck yeah, Cas.” Dean grinned as the bookkeeper threw a slice in the microwave. He crept closer to watch, his side hot against Castiel’s, his residual limb pressed again Castiel unabashedly. He looked up at him, chest heaving, assaulted by Dean’s cologne in a way that made him salivate. Dean’s eyes found his then, and they were suddenly ushered into a moment the manner of which Castiel has never known. It felt like they were consuming each other alive, without moving an inch. Castiel wanted to surrender to it, meld into Dean and be a part of him. 

The microwave went off, and the moment was shattered. Castiel stepped away, blinking back into reality. He grabbed the pie and set it on the counter. He almost laughed; he felt like a pet dropping a slobbered ball at its master’s feet. 

“I hope you like it.” Castiel sighed, removing himself from the candied bubble of Dean’s space. The other man waggled his eyebrows at him, and how funny it was that he did that, and revealed a fork. 

Without another word, Dean tore into the piece of cherry pie. He brought his fork to his mouth, and the dripping, crimson filling stained his lips as he took it in. Castiel shuddered and gripped the counter for support. 

Then Dean closed his eyes, moaned, and Castiel silently fell apart. 

“Fuck, Cas. You don’t disappoint, do you?” Dean murmured, already going in for another bite, and Castiel sighed and shook his head. 

At that moment, it was all suddenly undeniable. 

Castiel was in love with Dean Winchester. 

—

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey guys, I’m back!! So, the beginning of this chapter I’ve actually had written in a tiny pocket sketchbook I own that has just been floating around between purses and countertops and shit and I was so happy I was able to find it because it’s time had finally come! And update- I am okay down here in the ol lone star state, got electricity and water and everything. This chapter is extra special because drum roll plz it’s Eileen’s debut!! I love her so much FUCK. Anyway, I thought I’d share a small part of my process with you. I get unbelievably incredibly stoned. Stoner!Heller rights. Enjoy !!! 
> 
> P.S. I’m sure it’s common knowledge but in case it isn’t, the title of this fic is from the song ‘Heavy’ by Birdtalker and if you haven’t listened to it do that immediately 
> 
> \- Richie

It wasn’t raining, but the bench was damp. Castiel doubted it had ever been truly dry. The wood it was made of was permanently dark and porous, fat with years of rainfall.

Castiel settled his coat carefully to the backs of his legs as he sat, loathed to getting wet. Dean sat straight down. Castiel stole a glance. 

He watched the other man lean forward and set his arm on his knee. Before Castiel could look away again Dean turned and caught him looking. They were trapped by their shared gaze for a long, silent moment. The entire time Castiel’s heart thumped so heavily in his chest he swore he could hear it. 

“I’m not a cop, you know.” Dean spit out of nowhere, and Castiel was not the only one surprised by it. Dean’s eyebrows shot up as fast and high as Castiel’s surely did. Dean looked away, lips twitched down. 

“I don’t think that.” Castiel replied, and Dean rolled his eyes and huffed. 

“No yeah, I know, Cas. I mean, I was in the military.” Dean met his eyes again, and there were so many different emotions dancing in them that Castiel couldn’t help but to gasp. He recognized shame, he recognized fear. Others were nameless. “I don’t want you thinking I’m some kinda thoughtless, confederate bastard.” 

Castiel shook his head immediately. Granted, Castiel had struggled with the concept when he first learned of it. Castiel could never fit Dean into whatever various box of military stereotypes he would summon. It made sense, shallowly perhaps, but not really. And seeing Dean without the rest of his right arm- admittedly for Castiel it was at times overwhelming. Thinking about the amputation often kept Castiel up at night. He could not fathom the pain Dean must have gone through, was still going through, and it hurt Castiel because Dean Winchester had not deserved that fate. He deserved that less than anyone. It did not deter Castiel’s attraction to the other man, he doubted anything could, but it also served as a reminder that there was still so much about Dean that Castiel didn’t know. 

“I’d never think so low of you.” Castiel assured, glancing ahead at the playground. He caught sight of Jack where he sat laughing in the sandbox. Sam was beside him, endearingly very focused on his own sandcastle. They were having an increasingly animated conversation that woefully stayed just out of earshot. 

“I just-,” Dean breathed roughly and Castiel’s eyes found him again. He had followed Castiel’s gaze and was watching the boys, his profile outlined with the weak, pink glow coming from the setting sun beyond him. He was so striking Castiel couldn’t quite believe it. “I enlisted because I wanted to help people. And I know, okay, good intentions and all that crap. But it’s true. My dad had done it, hell, he was basically just our fucking drill-sergeant. I thought, ‘can’t be much different than that’.”

Castiel pursed his lips and brought his hand gently down on Dean’s knee. “Dean, you don’t have to explain yourself. I don’t think less of you because you served.”

Dean finally looked back at him, but not before glancing at Castiel’s hand still on him. Castiel tried not to blush as he softly withdrew it. 

“I appreciate that, Cas, but I think you should. The U.S. Military, its-,” Dean shook his head, licked his lips. Castiel watched the movement avidly. “fucked up. And I ain’t talking about all the debt and I’m not even talking about my arm. The shit they taught us, what they trained us to do, the things I’ve done…,” Dean trailed off, and his eyes, somewhat damp, strayed. “You shouldn’t be okay with shit like that, Cas, I’m not. I wish I could take it back.” 

Castiel sat with Dean’s words for a long moment. Firstly, Castiel had never been so in love with someone in his life. Dean was being vulnerable with him and his underbelly was as beautiful as the rest of him. More so perhaps. It felt like something had wrapped around Castiel’s lungs, turned them to rubber. Secondly, Dean was a very wounded man. That much had been obvious from the minute Castiel had met him, and it had been a constant ever since. Dean was like a poorly populated koi pond, a still, blue surface almost as clear as glass, inevitably broken by the occasional finned back of a calico goldfish. The pain was always there, it was part of what made him  _ him _ and Castiel found it as excruciatingly beautiful as the rest of him. 

“I’d like to think that I know you.” Castiel sighed, forcing their eyes to meet with a determined tilt of his head. Dean’s eyes were no longer wet, but they were so earnest and so incredibly green that Castiel lost his breath. “I’ve never endorsed war, but I know a hero when I see one, Dean.” 

Dean sucked in a quick and quiet breath. Castiel watched his throat bob with it. They’d leaned closer to each other, they breathed the same air, Castiel could smell gasoline and the rest of the cherry pie they’d eaten for breakfast. He was in love. 

“Damnit, Cas.” Dean mumbled, and finally looked away. It was the end of that topic of conversation. Gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Castiel was nothing if not honored, not shamefully exhilarated. It was ridiculously exciting each time Castiel learned something new about the eldest Winchester. 

“Thank you for sharing, Dean.” Castiel said anyway, and he exalted in Dean’s blush, hot and pink on his cheeks. Dean ran his hand down over his mouth, and Castiel looked off towards their boys again. “For men, you two are very hands-on with Jack. Can I ask why?” 

He heard Dean breathe a long, heavy sigh of relief at the change in subject, quick to reply, “He reminds me a lot of Sam at that age. S’not often you meet kids who are sweet like that. And I miss when Sammy was a baby, yknow? Haven’t really been around another one since.” 

Castiel’s gaze landed on Sam, and he supposed that he and Jack were indeed similar in a lot of ways. They were both unabashed in their praise of others, inquisitively tactile, and notably intelligent. Castiel wondered what that said about him and Dean, that the children they’d raised were so alike. 

“No wonder they get along.” Castiel remarked, and Dean smiled, still watching the boys. Jack had managed to climb up onto Sam’s shoulders and was playing with his hair. Sam was evidently committed to his architecture of sand as he paid Jack’s minstratons no mind. 

“As for Sam, I think he always wanted a kid brother of his own. I mean-,” Dean’s blush was so intense that it stalled his words and it was so endearing Castiel could not help a soft chuckle. Dean glared at him half-heartedly before continuing. “I couldn’t tell you why, but he worships me. It was even worse when he was a kid. He wanted to do everything I did, monkey see monkey do or whatever. Used to catch him playing house, and it was never mom and dad and baby. It was Big Brother and Little Brother. What a dork.” 

Castiel felt his stomach dive and swoop up again, warmth pooling into his previously numbed fingertips. 

“You raised him right.” 

He flicked his eyes to Dean as soon as the words were past his lips, and their eyes met again. Their gazes were like burrs on each other’s wool socks. Inevitably stuck together. 

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean breathed, and his expression was so gentle, so touched. Castiel could not believe this was the same hard, expressionless man he’d met all those months ago. Dean had fluttered open, a vast, titian monarch newly escaped from its chrysalis. Castiel wondered when he’d learn to fly. 

“Of course, Dean.” Cas uttered. Dean’s thigh was warm and electric against his own. 

The two of them lapsed into a comfortable but charged silence, watching their family as the sun went down. Fireflies occasionally stamped the indigo shadows of the encroaching night. Jack laughed at the sight of them, the sound effervescent. 

—

The Cloth of Dreams announced a customer with a familiar trill of the bell. Castiel and Sam, where they’d been lounging behind the counter to watch Jack color, melted into attention. 

It was a young woman, perhaps Sam’s age. She walked straight to them, eyes quickly fixed on Sam’s face. Sam, evidently flustered, glanced at Castiel nervously before greeting, “Uh- welcome to The Cloth of Dreams. How can I help you?” 

The woman smiled and deflated a little at the words, before replying, “Yes, thank you, do you have the new J. Parrish Lewis novel?” She signed as she spoke, and Castiel and Sam both relaxed with understanding. 

Sam, and Castiel was not necessarily surprised, seamlessly began to sign as he answered, “Yeah, actually, it came in over the weekend. I’ll go grab it.” 

As Sam disappeared in the stacks, Castiel had the pleasure of watching shock play out over the woman’s face. Sam’s fluency in ASL took someone aback, at least. Her brown eyes glittered with pleasant surprise when her gaze found Castiel’s, before they moved down to his lips. 

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t know either.” Castiel assured her, and the woman threw her head back and laughed. Castiel chuckled himself, endeared to her at once. That seemed to be a trend lately. 

“This place is cute. Are you the owner?” she asked, crossing her arms and resting them on the lip of the counter. She wasn’t quite tall enough to rest them atop it. 

“I am.” He stuck a hand out, and she shook it firmly with an impish smile. “Castiel Shurley.” 

Her eyebrows pinched, “Can you spell it out?” 

Castiel nodded and pulled his hand away, grateful that he knew this, at least. He signed each letter of his name slowly, and the woman nodded. “So, Cas-tiel or Cas-ti-el?”

“The second one.” Castiel smiled, and the woman hummed softly and nodded again. 

“Pretty name. I’m Eileen.” She offered, before her eyes caught on something behind him. “And who’s this?” 

Castiel turned to find Jack staring at Eileen with abject fascination. He leaned down to grab the boy and deposited him on the counter. “This is my business partner, Jack.” 

The woman laughed again as Sam sidled up beside her, book in hand. She turned to him and signed something seemingly mischievous, if Sam’s blush was any indication. 

“Sam?” The woman asked, and Sam signed his name again enthusiastically as he said it aloud. Eileen ducked her head with a bashful smile, and replied, “Eileen.” 

“Well, is there anything else you need, Eileen?” Sam pondered, rounding the counter to ring up her book. Castiel and Jack watched with identical smiles on their lips, suddenly unnoticed. 

“Maybe.” Eileen drawled, face flushed as she watched Sam put her book in a bag. “I wouldn’t say no to your number.” 

Castiel almost had to look away, his stomach roiling with secondhand elatement. Sam’s face, however, was far too priceless. He sputtered for a moment, pink in the cheeks in a way that made him look like his brother, and Jack giggled in Castiel’s ear. 

“Uh- yeah, s-sure. Sure.” Sam stuttered, ripping off a swath of receipt paper to write it down. Eileen glanced at Castiel and Jack then, and Castiel delighted in the puckish look in her eye. 

“Thanks.” She said with a fond smile. “I’ll text you, obviously.” 

Sam actually laughed at that, eradicating his lingering nerves. He grinned back at her, unabashed, and Eileen’s cheeks erupted with a sweet crimson. “I’m looking forward to it.” 

“It was nice to meet you.” Eileen turned to Castiel on her booted heel, clearly flustered. Castiel smiled at her knowingly, which only prompted her to giggle incredulously and quickly depart. The bell tinkled after her, giving the entire interaction a whimsical bookend that had Castiel turning to Sam with quirk of his brow. 

“She was lovely.” Castiel announced delightedly, and Sam disappeared behind a curtain of hair. He folded in on himself, but it was as if he was buzzing. Castiel could practically hear it.

“Yeah, she was.” He said quietly, and Castiel suddenly caught onto the atmospheric shift in the quiet around them. He shared a glance with Jack, who was sporting an identical frown to his own. 

“Is that a bad thing, Sam?” Castiel asked softly, setting Jack down and pushing him gently in the direction of the back room. Jack surrendered easily, inquisitive and cunning as he was. Once he was out of earshot, Castiel walked over to Sam and squeezed his shoulder. The younger man buffeted in his direction absently, irrevocably trapped under a barrage of deep thought. Sam did this every so often; disappeared behind his furrowed brow and into the labyrinthine caverns of his mind. 

“Sam?” Castiel insisted, and Sam shook himself once, his reintroduction to the present a bright bloom behind his eyes. 

“Sorry, Cas.” he pursed his lips and looked away, out at the rain. In the shop, music playing over the speakers made them deaf to it’s descent on the tin overhang. “No, it’s not bad. It’s terrifying.”

Castiel sighed. This, too, was unsurprising. Sam’s last relationship ended with death and horror. He had collapsed beneath the weight of it, and only recently had he emerged from the debris. What must Sam be feeling; an instinctual jump of the heart and soul, summoned by a pretty smile? Immediately followed by a shard of loss, of betrayal? Not for the first time, Castiel mourned for Sam. 

“There’s no need to apologize, Sam.” Castiel assured, stepping away to allow him some space. He leaned against the counter and regarded the youngest Winchester. “However, I feel the need to stress to you that good things do happen.”

Sam looked at him, and though he was much taller than Castiel, it was evident in that moment that he was looking up  _ to _ him. He swayed beneath the weight of it, Sam’s need for his approval, the soft, insistent way that Sam loved a person, and it reminded Castiel so strongly of Jack that he understood what Dean had been trying to say. Somehow along the way, the four of them had become a family. Castiel had never had one before. 

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, forehead dimpled by the kissing of his eyebrows. Castiel hummed for a moment, gathered his thoughts. 

“Meeting Eileen was a good thing. Compartmentalize it. It affects nothing past or future. It happened, it was good, and now it’s over.” Castiel explained, gesturing to the space Eileen had occupied, all strawberries and cream skin, eyes twinkling. “The only frightening thing left is choosing whether or not to experience the present.” 

Sam let loose a harsh breath and looked away, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears. 

“You always know what to say.” Sam shuddered, and Castiel gripped the edge of the counter tight. 

“I know you, Sam.” Castiel assured, and what a beautiful thing it was. Friendship was so sacred, and Castiel had only recently discovered it. It was pure, and it was simple, and Sam Winchester made it easy. They understood each other in a way no one else could. 

“Not yet. Not entirely.” Sam rebutted shamefully, entirely hidden behind by his fringe. “I haven’t told you about Ruby.” 

“Ruby?” Castiel repeated, and already the name tasted like ash on his tongue. His hackles were risen, a fierce flash of protectiveness rattled his bones. 

Sam shrugged into himself and leaned against the till. “Yeah, my ex. I met her six months after Jess died. She uh- introduced me. To, you know. Heroin.” 

The word heroin echoed like a gunshot in the room, and Castiel had known, had thought he knew, but having his suspicions confirmed was different. This young man, who had suffered arguably from the beginning of his life, his bodily autonomy consistently violated throughout it, was a gift. A gift to a world that was cruel and ungrateful. By God, if the universe could treat someone like Sam like this, what did it have in store for Jack? 

“Sam.” Castiel whispered helplessly, and Sam chuckled without mirth. 

“We were together for about a year. She OD’d about a week before Dean got home.” The young bookkeeper confided. His tone was hollow, his eyes fixed to an untraceable point. 

These Winchester men and all their hard jagged edges. How is it that people so broken made Castiel feel so complete? Because they were good, and righteous, and kind. They’d persevered the unimaginable. 

“So yeah, terrifying.” Sam finished, and Castiel took a moment to catch his breath. 

“Do you like tea, Sammy?” Castiel asked, and Sam blinked at him incredulously, snapped back into the aforementioned present. 

“What did you just call me?” He quipped, a strange kind of smile lifting his lips. Castiel frowned and chewed the nickname in his mouth, suddenly the shape of it awkward there. 

“Sammy? I must have picked it up from Dean. My apologies.” He corrected, a tad embarrassed. Again, his genuity proved hindering. 

But Sam shook his head and said, “No, no, it’s fine. Yeah, Cas, I like tea.” 

Castiel broke out into a smile and gave into the need to grip Sam’s shoulder again. 

“Well, Sam. We are going to close the shop early, go home, I’m going to make you some tea and we are going to talk.” Castiel decided, trying out a salacious wink that admittedly felt somewhat mechanical. It did the trick, however, when Sam busted through the concentrated fog he’d summoned around him with a peal of boyish laughter. 

“Sounds perfect, Cas.” Sam beamed. 

—


End file.
